CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sully~
Gale had been as naive as her sister. Maybe, now that his grief for his wife was only a tender place and not the bleeding wound it had been, that was what was drawing him to Robin. For as their names suggested, in all other ways, they were polar opposites. Robin was day to Gale’s night.
“I have a news flash for you, my dear,” he said. “Just because the Council has banned hunting, doesn’t mean no one hunts. People break laws all the time.”
Robin’s air of elegant tranquility was as much a part of her as her chic clothing, but his words ruffled her as a stiff breeze ruffled the calmest sea. “If Oliver Bramwell went hunting in the Old Forest,” she said flatly, “He’s lucky to have escaped with his life. The Old Ones don’t tolerate rule breakers.”
That was typical Robin Fairchild understatement. What she meant was that the dryads and wood sprites had established a state of peaceful coexistence with the tree people, as well as with the mortal inhabitants both human and animal of the Old Forest. They would ruthlessly punish anyone foolish enough to disturb their territory, Muggle or sensitive.
But all he said was, “It’s a wonder they didn’t strike him blind.”
“Don’t you think that an artist who paints what he doesn’t intend, has a sort of blindness?” Robin asked. “A blindness to his inner vision. I am not surprised that Oliver drowned his sorrows in rot gut.”
“He was lucky to escape with his life. You better hope that young Drake doesn’t make the same error.”
“Quinn Drake listens when the Old Ones speak. Have you seen his canvases?” Robin waved one shimmering violet-clad arm at her wall where a brooding redwood guarded a glade of tender, lime-green saplings. The painting was bordered with a delicate gilt frame that mysteriously both matched the room and somehow complemented the modern brushwork.
“That’s Quinn’s work?” Despite his earlier misgivings, Sully was impressed. This picture conveyed the mystery of the Old Forest and its deep tranquility and menace. He squinted and the tree spirits winked out from the foliage. He blinked and they disappeared.
“It is. He is very talented. And insightful.”
Sully nodded. “I could find that spot, and yet it’s no photograph. Is it my imagination, or can you see the dryads too?”
Robin raised her eyebrows. “They’re there – if you look for them. I am hoping that Quinn will do well enough this summer to make art his career. I want Moira to settle on the island – particularly if she is going to have babies.”
Sully raised his eyebrows. Robin was powerful. Immensely powerful. If she wanted the judges to shower Quinn with prizes, he would be showered with prizes. But one Fae, no matter how strong, could not control an entire Council of sensitives. And it was the Council that needed convincing.
“If I influenced the judges, Quinn would know,” she answered his unspoken question. “He wants to paint. It’s his passion. But he only wants it if he’s gifted enough to survive in the art jungle. If I rigged the show?” She shrugged. “He’d go back to Drake Investments in a heartbeat.”
“That’s another thing, Robin. I should warn you. This year there’s a whole lot of blowback about the Art Fair. And your colony. A lot of people are wondering if attracting a bunch of Non-sensitives to the island is such a good idea after all.”
“I notice the Council had no trouble incorporating the projected taxes into next year’s budget,” she said tartly.
“They want to have their cake and to eat it too,” Sully agreed grimly. “The businesses that do a good trade when a bunch of non-sensitives get off the ferry – and I include mine in that number – like the extra money just fine. It’s having all those Non-sensitives around that they don’t like.”
“The Council also likes that we now have twenty-three new businesses on Main Street. Each one paying taxes and between them employing forty-four more people than had jobs three years ago.” Robin looked too dainty and fragile to be the crackerjack business woman she was. That was one of the reasons she was in her third term as mayor.
“I’ve had to hire six extra hands to help,” he agreed. “I used to run the ticket office myself, as well as take the Nightingale out, but there are so many paying customers that I had to put someone in the booth full-time. And I needed someone to run the new concession stands on board the boats. And not just part-time, those are full-time positions. And three of them are year-round.”
Robin’s gleaming head inclined regally. “Lots of established business have felt a boost from the Fair. Every room at the inn is fully booked for all of July. And my cottages too. As well as every bed and breakfast on the island. I expect to do just as well in June and August, perhaps into September. That means extra staff in the restaurant and in housekeeping and security for the entire summer, not just July.”
“As much as they like having their relatives employed, people still don’t like the number of non-sensitives who turn up.”
Robin sighed. “I’ll admit that I had hoped to encourage sensitives to come to West Haven for a holiday, and to stay because they felt at home. But although the shifter families invited their friends and relatives, none of their visitors want to move here. They don’t want to buy land where they would be second-class citizens.”
“When they said sensitives, the Council meant sorcerers, psychics and fairies,” he retorted. “What we got were hunters.”
“If the Councilors asked their relatives and friends to visit, as the hunters do, we’d have a different mix of tourists. But they don’t.”
“Most year-rounders don’t have a lot of relatives off-island,” Sully pointed out. “I don’t myself.”
Robin nodded. “Most of the artists in the colony are sorcerers, psychics and fairies,” she said. “Poor as church mice. They don’t invite their relatives any more than the councilors do. They usually spend the bare minimum in Mystic Bay, and as soon as the cold weather arrives, they go back to the mainland to wait tables or run tea shops until next season.”
“This is true. You could support them through the winter,” he suggested.
She shook her shining head. “Not cost effective. And this way, I can weed out those who don’t produce salable material. Besides, we don’t want more resident paupers.”
Robin gave him a direct look from her clear silvery eyes. The lack of turquoise in their depths signaled how serious she was. “It’s the shifters who have the big bucks required to buy land and build or to start businesses. We’re a dwindling population, Sully. Fairies, psychics and sorcerers alike. We need some new blood.”